


a mighty ocean or a gentle kiss

by Marianne_Dashwood



Series: what love seeks [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Consent, Forehead Kisses, Internalized Acephobia, It's projection hours for mr jon sims, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, just sticks all my trauma onto fictional characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood/pseuds/Marianne_Dashwood
Summary: "He didn’t need a relationship. It was too much work, too much hassle; first to find someone who was compatible platonically, then to see if they even wanted a romantic relationship, navigating the heavy weight of expectation that comes from relationships. Relationships are a two way street, after all. Too many people would expect reciprocation. Would expect heated kisses and exploratory touches and passionate nights. That's what every movie, every book told him. And if he couldn’t even kiss someone, how was he ever going to have sex?"
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Past Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist - Relationship
Series: what love seeks [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537819
Comments: 37
Kudos: 301





	a mighty ocean or a gentle kiss

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I'm gay and yearning and the current global climate is keeping me from my girlfriend and I'm very sad. 
> 
> This fic, as you'll find, is heavily inspired by my own experiences dating as an asexual person, and is therefore extremely personal - unlike all my other fics, I would prefer that no concrit was left on this, just because it is so personal. 
> 
> Many many many thanks to my beautiful and wonderful girlfriend, FireFlashMoon/@Dewdropstar_ who serves as the inspiration for this fic, and many more of my writings; you're wonderful and I love you so much. Jon's a bit more dramatic than I was, but you know <3.
> 
> And a final thanks to the Magnus Writers Discord for always being so encouraging and welcoming to me!

Dating, in Jon’s mind, had too many cons for the few positives that would come from it. The idea of talking to someone with the express intention of a relationship was at best uncomfortable and with the wrong person, abhorrent. 

It wasn’t even just Jon’s inability, or, more accurately, dislike, of small talk. Contrary to popular belief, he could do it, and even do it well, if his partner stuck to a similar script. At work, that was easy; talk about how the organisation of the Archives was going. At university, the usual rigamarole of talking about your course, lecturers, flatmates. Even then, once he moved into his second semester, he had Georgie, and it’s not like he went to any work parties he wasn’t required to attend. He hated that strange middle ground between friends and co-workers, the odd place between work and talking about emulsifiers for 45 minutes. The middle ground between friends and dating was even worse.

For Jon, it had always been like living in a country where he didn’t speak the language. Every touch means something, every pause significant, even the amount of time between texts meant something that Jon didn’t quite understand. Every single time he thought he had worked out a translation guide, something else would come along and he would have to rework his understanding. 

He was lucky to have found Georgie. He knew he was. She helped to translate, verbalised what she wanted and what she expected, although, it hadn’t always started that way. He had thought they were ‘just friends’, and was very surprised at her insistence it was their six month anniversary. She was the one who had introduced him to the term asexual, though it took years for him to be comfortable using it to refer to himself, let alone saying it out loud. He mourned the loss of his translator almost as much as he mourned the loss of the relationship itself. Georgie was tactile, and she liked to curl up on top of him, clinging to him like an octopus in bed, and her hands were soft and warm in his own. He loved that, he loved her, and for a short time, he was happy. 

Once, she tried to kiss him. He didn’t fault her for not asking permission; studying romantic comedies after had taught him that it had been the perfect romantic moment; sunset on a rooftop after they finished their exams, slightly tipsy and feeling immortal. 

It was stupid that he said no. It was so stupid, how he reacted, and even now, yers later, it made his body flush with embarrassment. 

Georgie, with her kind hands and steady body, had leaned in to kiss him, and it had been like someone had hit the fire alarm in his brain. All he could feel was panic; although for what he didn’t quite know. Later, he would try and explain the siren, how a switch had been flipped and even though, rationally, he knew that this is what people were supposed to do, this is what boyfriends were supposed to do. At that moment, he was just panic. So panicked, in fact, that he doesn’t even remember if they even did kiss. 

All he knows is that his mouth and body reacted without permission. Instead of a kiss, his mouth formed the word  **_no_ ** , and his body pulled back as if he had been burned. 

It had all fallen apart after that. Again, the rational part of his brain expounded about the end of university, their diverging career paths, how these kinds of relationships never lasted anyway. Georgie never said anything about it, simply pulled away and apologised, never moving to do it again. The irrational part of his brain pinned the failure of the kindest relationship he had ever been a part of, on his inability to be a  _ good boyfriend _ and just,  _ kiss his girlfriend _ . 

He didn’t need a relationship. It was too much work, too much hassle; first to find someone who was compatible platonically, then to see if they even wanted a romantic relationship, navigating the heavy weight of expectation that comes from relationships. Relationships are a two way street, after all. Too many people would expect reciprocation. Would expect heated kisses and exploratory touches and passionate nights. That's what every movie, every book told him. Friendship, then love, then sex; maybe not in that order, but eventually, sex was what it came down to. And if he couldn’t even kiss someone, how was he ever going to have sex?

Even masturbation seemed like a world away to him. He couldn’t quite work it out; where to put his hands, what he was supposed to think about, even the hormone rush didn’t seem quite worth it for the effort he had to put in. 

No, since he had left university ( ~~Left Georgie~~ ), relationships had barely ever been on his radar. Too messy, too complicated, and in any case, he was far too busy. 

And then, Martin. And then, the Lonely, then the cottage, and then it all fell into place. Martin held his hand when they walked into the village, and he held onto Martin at night, arm slung over Martin’s soft stomach. Martin was more than happy to act as a cushion as Jon read to him on Daisy’s lumpy sofa, and Jon has found the softest place in which to lie his head on Martin’s lap and nap while Martin’s fingers carded though his hair. 

It is perfect. Martin is perfect, even if those words somethise stuttered and were choked in his throat, he knew he loved him. He didn’t know if he was in love, but he knew that loving Martin was like breathing, a new reflex in his lungs. Jon doesn’t know when he started needing a second heartbeat, but he does, now, his heart in rhythm with Martin’s.

Jon honestly doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love. Being in love and loving are two different things, and he doesn’t think he has been  _ in  _ love. He has no idea what that is supposed to feel like, because this is nothing like trashy romance novels and romcoms watched for lack of anything else on a friday night. It always seemed like such a huge thing, to fall in love, and maybe one day he will realise how big it really is. But Jon tripped and stumbled into loving Martin, and he is choosing, every single day, to keep loving Martin. He doesn’t have much in the way of choice these days. But any choice he can make, he’ll choose Martin. 

Here’s the thing, though. Jon keeps thinking about kissing Martin. He thinks about kissing Martin and he’s wondering if that is what being in love means. Because isn’t that what all of this is supposed to lead to? Being in love means you kiss your partner? He’s not sure anymore. The thought fills him with two extremes, a warmth he has never before felt, and the shard of ice cold dread in his spine, in his heart, in his eyes. Jon thinks about kissing Martin, and he’s afraid; afraid that if he does then all of this will shatter, an illusion that was never real. Afraid that Martin, big, soft,  _ kind  _ Martin, will take him to bed. He knows these thoughts are stupid. He has never felt safer than when Martin’s arms are around him, when Martin’s hand is in his own. 

He knows this. He knows this. So why is he still so afraid, why does his body freeze like it does when Martin leans in and asks, in a voice that's so fearful of rejection, “Jon, can I kiss you?”

They’re sitting on the old sofa, a movie playing on the screen, come comedy that leaves Martin chuckling and Jon with his head leaning on Martin’s chest so he can feel the warm vibrations of laughter. It’s a quiet moment, a perfect moment. If this was a movie, Martin wouldn’t even have asked. He would have simply tilted Jon’s head up by the chin, two gentle fingers and softly, tenderly kissed him. He would taste like tea and Jon’s burned attempt at breakfast and wet wool. If this was a movie, Jon would reciprocate. 

This isn’t a movie. Jon feels himself freeze, the small smile frozen on his face, comfort evaporated. Dread rises up in him, battles with the part of his brain that thinks,  _ no, no you idiot, you want this, you want this, you’ve been thinking about this, come on you fucking moron! _

“Jon?” Martin asks, voice quiet. A scenario flashes though Jon’s mind; he says no, Martin’s face crumples and he begins to weep, asking over and over again “ _ What’s wrong with me, Jon, what is wrong with me that you don’t want me, whats wrong?”  _ and Jon will have to explain that it isn’t him, that it’s Jon that’s wrong, and broken and stupid, so goddamn stupid- 

“Just, just on the forehead. And you don’t have to say yes to that, you can say no, Jon.”

“I-,”  _ Come on Jon. You’ll never know unless you try. _ “Yes. Yes you can.”

Martin kisses him like he’s glass, like he might break or pull away and Jon hates the thought that Martin fears he will flinch away from his touch.

It’s comforting. Perhaps that is the most surprising part. As soon as Martin had reassured him, the ice had melted away, and he is safe in the press of lips on skin, in Martin’s arms. He’s safe. 

Martin doesn’t say anything, not until the movie ends and Jon starts to shift to get tea. 

“Jon, we should…. We should talk about what happened.”

“Oh,” Jon says, and expectation weighs like an anchor in his chest, “Oh, of course.”

Martin blinks at him expectantly, but Jon doesn’t know what to say. 

“Did you… Did you like it?” Martin asks.

“The kiss?”

“No, the movie,” Martin rolls his eyes, “Of course the kiss! Were you uncomfortable?”

“Not at all!” Jon says. 

“You’re lying. You stiffened, I felt it. You didn’t want to, but you said yes anyway.”

“I didn’t… That wasn’t…” 

“Jon,” Martin says, taking his hands gently, and looking into his eyes, “Do you want to kiss me?”

“Yes?” Jon says, and when Martin gives him a look, “No? Maybe?”

“I need more than a maybe, Jon. I want you to feel comfortable, and I never, never want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“You never, Martin, you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

“Then, why-?”   
  
“Because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next! Because there’s a code to this, there’s always a code I have to decipher, and I know I’m not going to get it right! Whatever I do, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“Jon…” Martin sighs, sounding like he’s already disappointed, if it wasn’t for the gentle motions of his thumbs on the back of Jon’s hand, “Jon, I’m not disappointed in you.”

“You will be,”Jon says, quietly, “When I can’t give you what you want.”

“Jon, what I  _ want  _ is for you to feel happy and safe with me,” Martin says, “I don’t need anything else from you. If you never want to kiss me, or for me to kiss you again, that’s fine with me. What isn’t fine is… is you bottling up these feelings, and not telling me if you don’t want to do something, because then it feels like my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jon starts, but Martin waves him away. 

“But that’s what it feels like, you understand?” 

Jon’s head drops, “I understand.”

“Now please,” Martin squeezes Jon’s hands, “Please tell me what’s wrong, so we can fix it together.”

Jon takes a deep breath. Martin needs to know. It’s just like a statement, but… but more important. As soon as he starts to think of it as a statement, the words begin to flow,

“I don’t know if I want to kiss you. I think about it; I think of kissing you in the rain, on a cliff or by the beach, watching the swell of the waves and the flights of birds. I think of kissing you in a kitchen filled with flour and bright colours, and I think of kissing you in bed when you curl up next to me and I can see you shivering in the night but you don’t say anything in the morning, and I want to kiss that away but everytime I go to do it I just…. I just freeze, Martin. And I can’t do it.’

‘I think about it and I think I want it but when I’m supposed to do it, I can’t. I just can’t. I know it’s all me, it’s not you because you’re… you’re wonderful, Martin, all of you. I want to know you, every part of you that you tuck away because you’re ashamed of it, I want you to know that I’ll treasure it all. But it’s more than that. I want you to know me too, because you’re the only person that’s ever really seen me, Martin. There are things that are so tied up in my head that I don’t think I’ll ever get them out but I want to tell  _ you _ . Things I’ve never told anyone, except for you. You’re safe. You’re... safety and comfort and god, Martin, even my name feels safe in your mouth. I don’t know if that’s enough, I don’t know if I’m if I can't give you what you need, but I just… I just want to be selfish, just this once, and I want to exist with you. Here, now, just us.”

He looks up, finally, and sees tears in Martin’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” He says quickly, “I’m sorry, I won’t be selfish, I’m just broken and wrong and-”

Martin hugs him, and takes less than a second before he’s melted into it, hugging him back tightly. 

“You stupid, stupid man,” Martin says, muffled, “Why am I in love with someone who has a severe case of not-communicating-itis?”

He pulls back, cups Jon’s face gently. “I love you, Jon. All of you, every part of it, and I’m going to repeat myself, but if you never want to kiss me, I understand. If you never want me to kiss you, I understand. You’ve got boundaries, and I will respect them. But I’ve got to know the boundaries, Jon. I need you to tell me.”

Jon nods, acquiescing, “I love you too, Martin. And, I will try. I’ll try to be more communicative about my… my feelings. Because… because I’d want you to do the same for me. Tell me, that is, if you need me to take a step back or not do something.”

Martin smiles, “Good, that’s really good. We’ll get you healthily communicating in no time!”

“Well,” Jon smiles, a joke settling in a moment later, “You can try.”

“I intend to,” Martin grins, “But first, I do need to check; it’s a no for mouth kisses and then I assume anything below the belt?”

It’s hard to describe the feeling of relief that those words give Jon. He’s a thousand tonnes lighter, all in a moment, and it feels like he's floating on a wave of  _ he’s safe, I’m safe, he’s not going to leave, he doesn’t want me to leave. _

“No,” Jon says, “But, but sometimes I think about it. So, I… maybe? In the future?”

Martin smiles and nods like it’s so obvious, like they have a future, and it makes Jon’s chest hurt, with how much he loves him. 

“And… forehead kisses? On the cheek?”

“Yes,” Jon says, immediately, “Yes, it was… it made me feel safe.”

And then, to seemingly, accentuate his point, he leans forward, careful and deliberate in his movements, and kisses Martin’s cheek. He was right. Martin smells like tea, and he’s warm and sturdy and  _ safe. _

“Was that okay?” He asks.

“Okay?” Martin asks, as a smile stretches across his face, like the first rays of the dawning sun, “It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

When Martin presses a kiss to Jon’s forehead, all Jon can think is that it feels like home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me @MJDashwood on twitter and marianne-dash-wood on tumblr!


End file.
